A Prediction

And in the same way ancient bricks don’t hang in the sky
    without detection or prevention from fragile men
who spend their inflamed, unabridged days mixing mud
     with clay and a quarter-percent sand thus stolen
from ornamental hourglasses unsold in shuttered stores
     specializing in fully rigged Neolithic fishing ships
(no wonder the need for closure) and how these clots
     placed in tiny fires never reach the extreme heat of
the space-time continuum, so too our eyes behind our glasses
     don’t see the dull growth of trees until the day
bulldozers come to lay groundwork for a pre-planned bypass
     that will link the previous three-hundred-and-sixty-four
with the next. On this day of concoctions, confections and
     a type of contentment that can only last twenty-four turns
of the vertical bulbs comes a desire to destroy the machine
     cast from the same material it casts: “let us make bricks, 
and burn them thoroughly” to briefly stop the production
     of more bricks from bricks, so breaking
the perpetual passage of microwavable minutes. Perhaps
     this programmable date of binary numbers is the day
in which it will be said you are a man to be reckoned with.